


You Know What To Do

by Nny



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Clint is an avenger, M/M, St. Patrick's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 09:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18221015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: Clint was leaning up against the wall by the black iron gate, his arms folded across his chest and a scowl on his face. His shirt, though, had a shamrock printed on it, and Bucky couldn’t see the writing but it’d come out of his closet; he knew that the white letters spelled out 'You Know What To Do.’





	You Know What To Do

Bucky’s St Patrick’s celebrations always started a little differently than people’d expect, to look at him, but his ma would roll in her grave if he didn’t attend mass in the morning, mouthing along with the words he’d been shaping since he was too young to know what they meant. More accurately, she’d roll in her grave if she was in it already, rather than living out in Jersey and despairing of all his life choices, signing him up for the occasional religions circulars and otherwise aggressively ignoring his existence. It was what it was. Bucky did her the courtesy of keeping his business mostly to Brooklyn and only sending her money on Christmas.

Mostly Paddy’s day ended for him the way it did for most everyone else, though - maybe not vomiting in a gutter, ‘cos he had a certain reputation to protect, but certainly drinking and certainly in green, and maybe conducting a little business if he felt like the other party had indulged more than he had.

He was watching a poker game through the two way mirror in the bar’s back room when Padraig cleared his throat behind him - he was a teetotaller and kind of a prick, so Bucky loved to make him work his least favourite day of the year. The guy he was watching, on the other side of the glass - small-time, local asshole cop, trying to set up a protection racket right under Bucky’s damn nose - was in up to his eyeballs and only just starting to realise how deep the trouble went, so Bucky was smiling when he turned to acknowledge Padraig.

“Your man’s outside,” he was told, and the disapproving expression was gonna have to be acknowledged and dealt with sooner or later, but Clint was waiting so that time wasn’t now. He clapped Padraig on the shoulder and gestured him to take Bucky’s seat, trusting that he’d keep an eye on Connor and ensure that everything went according to plan - he was an asshole, but he was an efficient one, 'cos Bucky only ever worked with the best.

He was offered four drinks and had to dodge five kisses as he wove through the bar. It wasn’t his place, 'cos having stuff under his name was an invitation to harrassment and trumped up charges, but he had a vested interest. Nobody raised an eyebrow when he slipped through the staff door behind the bar and into the small courtyard outside.

It was strung with green lights, in honour of the season, and Clint was leaning up against the wall by the black iron gate, his arms folded across his chest and a scowl on his face. His shirt, though, had a shamrock printed on it, and Bucky couldn’t see the writing but it’d come out of his closet; he knew that the white letters spelled out 'You Know What To Do.’

There was a moment of resistance, enough for Bucky to almost pull away before Clint ducked his head and pulled him in, big hands slipping around to the small of Bucky’s back in that way that always made him feel kinda small and safe in a way that nothing else in his life ever did. Clint’s mouth against his was like coming home, and that, too, was something he hadn’t felt in years. He was in deep, and he pushed in deeper, slid his hands up into Clint’s hair so he couldn’t pull away - so that Bucky would feel it immediately if he tried to pull away.

He didn’t. Bucky kept breathing.

“Word is you’ve got a cop in there,” Clint said eventually, when they finally pulled apart.

“Pretty sure we’ve got plenty,” Bucky said, letting a space grow naturally between them, wearing a casual smile that woulda fooled anyone else.

“A particular cop,” Clint said, and the scowl was back, like it’d only been gone while he forgot himself. Bucky didn’t always like what that implied.

“Word’s not wrong,” he said with a shrug. “And he’ll be home and safe with his wife and little Saoirse, just as soon as he’s done with his game.”

“Safe and unharmed.”

Bucky spread his hands, tried on an innocent smile that sure as hell no one would believe. “What else?”

Clint snorted a little, but the line of his shoulders fractionally unwound, and Bucky didn’t have words to say how much that trust meant. He knew better than anyone how little he deserved it, and maybe that was why it was something he so craved.

“Gotta say I hate this part of you.” Clint’s voice was low in the dim courtyard, and cold in Bucky’s chest.

“And what about the part where I love you?” he asked, before he could think about it too hard, and hell if the surprise there didn’t sting, “what about that part?”

“Fuck,” Clint said, which was not exactly an inspiring response, but it was followed with, “come here.” Bucky slid back into his arms like he belonged there, like that was something he was allowed to rely on.

They were at their best, like this. Caught up in each other, mouth to mouth, building a world outta the two of them and letting everything else slip away. They were best when Clint wasn’t thinking, and Bucky’s life choices weren’t making him think. Bucky slipped his hands under the hem of Clint’s shirt, sliding them around to the warm skin of Clint’s back, feeling the muscles move as Clint hauled him closer so Bucky was pressing him up against the wall. He liked to be trapped like this,  _in_  this, and Bucky was no psychologist so he was trying like hell not to think about what that might mean.

Clint couldn’t pull away. He had to, eventually, 'cos why would he clear his whole night for this, but he kept pushing back in for quick sipping kisses, his cheeks flushed and his eyes dark, returning again and again like he was helpless for this.

So what did it matter that he didn’t say it back?


End file.
